


Mon frère à mes côtés me paraissait une ombre

by Wallissa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Animalistic Sex, Barebacking, Bottom Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Top Sam Winchester, post-hunt sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:47:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28556358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallissa/pseuds/Wallissa
Summary: After all these years living and breathing and fighting side by side, they’ve fallen into a certain routine when it comes to hunts, whether they meant to or not.The scent of fire and honey-golden lights, whispers in the oak trees and cheap motel sheets. Lust and bloodlust and desperation.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 111





	Mon frère à mes côtés me paraissait une ombre

Above, pearls on velvet. Cold and distant, with torn veils slipping past.

By his side, his brother. The moon spills silver light on them, turns blood a gentle black and runs cool fingers through Sam’s curls.

Around them, the woods stretch into the night, rows of trees lose themselves in nothingness. The scent of soil, the rustle of solid shapes of darkness in the underbrush. 

Creatures tangle in the corners of their vision, claws and teeth and empty eye sockets. The whispers of the brook, the scent of rot and blood and sin. 

Dean feels the silver blade in his hand, a heavy shard of moonlight. Dew under his boots and he tries not to slip, tries to tell branches from claws, night from darkness. 

Days of research, of obituaries and dried blood and neon lights on cold metal tables, of dust and suits and bullet point scribbles on mismatched pages accumulating in this moment. His heartbeat thrums in his ears. Anticipation and dread. White knuckles and a heavy shard of moonlight. At the corner of his vision, he spots rot-dripping darkness pushing itself through the thorny underbrush, clawing at the forest floors.

There’s always something to kill. There’s always the give of flesh, always blood under his fingernails, guts spilled on night-drenched forest floors. And by his side, there’s always Sam, like a shadow. A footstep to the right, a turn to the left, always at the edge of his vision, mirror’s image, a flash of silver, a gunshot.

~*~

The scent of mud and smoke and sweat. Leather seats and gleaming metal. Trees rushing past, like writhing shapes momentarily frozen by their headlights. 

Dean’s skull is splitting, his throat hoarse, Latin sticking to his tongue. Eyes half blind with skin shrivelling up under hungry flames. Cold hands and stinging-hot clawmarks.

Outside, there’s an endless whirl of darkness, an endless army of creatures of fangs and claws and static that they haven’t reached yet. An endless row of obituaries printed in newspapers because they haven’t reached them in time. 

Tombs and graves and fresh soil. Fire in the dark, smoke curling up into the sky, into his skull, singeing his thoughts at the edges. Outside, the oaks whisper. The brooks sing. Death has sunk its claws into both of them, time and time again. Bone-white knuckles on the steering wheel.

But the night is locked out, a comforting purr seeps through him and next to him, there’s Sam. Leg jiggling with adrenaline, rotten blood smeared on his cheekbone and dirt on his knees. Bruised knuckles, blood under his fingernails, but next to him. The scent of mud and smoke and sweat.

There’s the cold, there’s darkness. Memories in soft whispers running through his hair, seeping into his heart. But for the moment, there’s this. The car, and the night, and his brother next to him. Motel room keys rattling in the gloves department.

~*~

Whiskey and pain killers and incense. Adrenaline like a hissing flame. Dean’s hands are shaking, his lungs flutter, layers of air vibrate and swirl in front of his eyes. The warm light spilling from the lamps on their bedside tables turns to honey, dripping into his eyes and running down the walls. Dust-sweet carpets under heavy boots, a step and the world tips. A swirl of honey and darkness seeping into his vision, the satin slickness of a cheap comforter against his cheek.

A cool-gentle hand on his cheek and Sam by his side, the broad-warm line of his shoulders blocking out the light, the cold tip of his nose brushing his temple, his hot mouth against his cheekbone. Heat pulses through Dean’s brain, whiskey-sharp. Words are for papercuts, hugs are for broken bones, but when fangs and claws and death come creeping in, that’s not enough. 

Leather and jeans and worn-out flannel, layers on layers of fabric concealing family values etched in silver lines. Shaking hands, cool fingertips tracing blue-black ink and violet-green bruises. 

Papercuts and broken bones and motel sheets tangled around his legs. The taste of blood and smoke still lingers on their skin, on Dean’s tongue. Bruises, toothmarks, red welts. He’s trembling with greed. 

Hands, warmed under his shirt, brush over his ribs to rest on his hips and the almost-ticklish touch burns through him, making his stomach clench with arousal. A mouth on his jaw, words that still have the aftertaste of Latin against his mouth. He lets his mouth fall open in reply, soft and hot and inviting.

Time melts, he loses himself in the scent of fire and oak trees, of flannel and skin. Fingers, dripping-cool once more, brush over his hipbone. 

The fabric rustles under his heel and his hands slip over the comforter, slip up, knuckles knocking against the headboard painfully, scrambling for purchase. Honey in his eyes and his blood whiskey-hot in his veins, teeth nipping on his lower lip. A twist of Sam’s fingers that has his lashes fluttering, followed by the rush of cool air on his overheated skin.

The shadows push in. Dean’s head tips back, breath caught in his throat. The room is a swirl of light and darkness, hands claw at him, his lip splits on a moan. 

There’s a brief moment of relief, purifying. Holy water on Dean’s lips, dripping from Sam’s cheekbone, glittering on his temples and in the dip between his collar bones. A smudge of Dean’s blood on his lower lip, his big paws bruising Dean’s thighs, his hips. Then, Sam leans in, muscle mass and heat.

Heat that bleeds through Dean, makes his lashes flutter. His shoulders slip over cheap sheets, he instinctively rolls with the movement, vision melting in honey and gold, a white-knuckled grip on his hip. A flash of Sam’s teeth, a low growl in his ear. Hunger, greed, bloodlust. Incense pours through Dean’s skull, sharp-sweet. He can’t think, his body a mess of pain and pleasure. Cotton scratching his shoulder blades, hot breath on his throat, on his thrumming pulse. 

His fingers tangle in Sam’s hair, feather-soft, just long enough to pull. He gets a low moan in return, a hungry sound that has his head spinning, weak knees and adrenaline in his throat. Sam’s slick back muscles under his palm, under his nails and when Sam leans in, the taste of Dean’s split lip still lingers on his tongue, salty-sweet. 

Dean moans again and Sam eats the sound straight from his mouth, the answering growl melting his insides. He doesn’t pull back, sinks lower instead, giving Dean just enough time to worry about the strain this must be putting on his lower back before tightening his grip a little and erasing all thought from Dean’s head. Burned shoulders and a mauled mouth, fresh pink bruises on fading hints of green. He’s trembling with greed, blood under his fingernails.

This time when Sam pushes in, Dean’s vision blurs. Entwined shadows, incense dripping into his open mouth. The headboard against the wall, the sound echoing in the room, mixing with the desperate noise Dean tries to bite back. Pleasure pulses through him, gold and hot enough to burn. Sweat stings in his eyes and Sam’s hair sticks to his lips, a taste of smoke and moonlight. 

He’s trembling, writhing until Sam leans in closer, chest to chest, heat and sandalwood and strength. Pushing Dean into the sheets, holding him down, pinning him. Making him take it. His mouth brushes Dean’s ear until Dean’s skull echoes with his low moans, drowning out his thoughts. Like this, Dean can’t move, can’t think, blood and smoke and incense, bruises and bitemarks and his vision goes white, choking him with pleasure.

Sam doesn’t stop, warm-strong arms, teeth against his neck, deep-guttural moans, and Dean thinks he’s going to drown, nails sunk into his back, his voice breaking on his moans until Sam pushes in, pushes him down and keeps him there. Honey-dripping shadows, golden heat.

When he opens his eyes, Sam is with him, warm and heavy, dripping from his mouth, splattered on his skin. Silver lines and sharp teeth, warm eyes and sweat-slick muscles. Familiar. 

Filled and dripping, Dean runs a trembling hand through Sam’s sweaty hair, lets his mouth fall open for another kiss. Sam sighs, melts into him, and Dean lets himself drown in the sweet aftertaste of smoke and mud and blood.

~*~

There’s always something to kill. There’s always the dry taste of painkillers, always blood crusted in his hair, bruises on pale skin. And by his side, there’s always Sam, like a shadow. Almost there, not quite himself, but still _his_.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly: Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> Thanks to SuperWhoLock back in the day, I was always vaguely aware of the SPN fandom and have been reading fics for them for about 6 years now, if not more, but it’s only been last month that I, swept by the SPN renaissance, have actually started watching the show. Honestly, I’ve been having so much fun and this fic concept has been buzzing in my mind for a while now, so. Here we go. It’s been a long time coming, I suppose, and I’m glad to be here now.
> 
> That said, I have to reconstruct the whole process of how this fic came to be, I fear, to explain the source material. So to say.  
> In general, it’s inspired by the second line of Victor Hugo’s poem “A quoi songeaient les deux cavaliers…” (“What the two horsemen were thinking…”): “Herman à mes côtés me paraissait une ombre” - “Hermann at my side seemed to me a shadow”. I changed it to "mon frère", my brother.
> 
> That first line in itself, on the other hand, is also the title of [a fragrance](https://www.etatlibredorange.com/products/hermann-a-mes-cotes-me-paraissait-une-ombre) by Etat Libre d’Oranges. Absolutely stunning concept, to me, even if the fragrance itself smells more like a gentle fog clinging to green-fresh grass in the morning, as opposed to dark woods and shadows, as the description “a gothic fragrance” that ELdO gave, lead me to believe. But that’s neither here nor there.
> 
> I got acquainted with the fragrance, loved the name, looked up the poem, and worked on the fic somewhere in between all those steps. 
> 
> There are a few references to the poem itself and it’s a very nice read, but it was mostly the shadow that intrigued me. If you’re interested, here is [a link](https://allpoetry.com/-A-quoi-songeaient-les-deux-cavaliers-...#orig_8523575,%20.otitle_8523575) where you can read both the French version and the English translation. I highly recommend it!
> 
> -
> 
> A final note: English isn’t my mother tongue. If you see any grammatical errors, I’m awfully sorry, and I’d appreciate it if you told me :’) Thank you so much!
> 
> Oh, and you can find me on [tumblr.](https://typinggently.tumblr.com)
> 
> That’s all I have to say. This was a true joy to work on, I loved it a lot and, naturally, I hope you enjoyed it too! If you did, please consider leaving a heart or even a kudo, it brightens my day so much :') 
> 
> Again, thank you so much for reading, and I hope you have a nice start of this new year!


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